Escalante says. I meant in the water.
Escalanteâs preference immediately generates a certain regard in Chacho for the visitorsâsomewhat diminished by the scene heâs just witnessedâand a resigned smile decorates the ambivalent manner with which he gazes, through the doorway that leads to the sidewalk, at the slanting rainfall that crosses the light against the dark backdrop of the night.
âI have a couple of catfish, he says. Theyâre the first of the year.
âSo they donât leave empty-handed, Escalante says.
A childish, intensely joyful look appears on Gutiérrezâs face, which the barman notes with a spark of satisfaction and possibly even malice, and Nula, without hesitating, attributes the look to some idealized image of the local color that, during his years away, Gutiérrez had hoped to recover, and which, at this moment, by some unexpected and benevolent concession granted by the external world, is now really real. Chacho disappears into the back of the building, through a doorway next to the fridge.
âDonât walk past the dump this late, Escalante says. Youâll be slaughtered and eaten up.
âWhere oppression reigns, its victims are always suspect, Gutiérrez says.
âThey came forth for no good reason, and now they squirm around like a bunch of larvae, Escalante says, and, with a hoarse laugh, adds, Just like the rest of us.
âYet we claim to embody something more elevated, Gutiérrez says. Power, knowledge, wealth, tradition, and, worst of all, virtue.
âLarvae that pontificate, buy cars, and drink fine wine, Nula says, rubbing his hands together. My golden goose.
Chacho reappears in the opening that leads to the other room: heâs now wearing a burlap sack shaped into a sort of cloak over his shoulders; he carries an enormous flashlight in one hand and a knife in the other.
âDo you know where it is? Gutiérrez says.
âDoctor Russoâs place? Escalante says. I once brought charges on behalf of two or three poor bastards who lost everything they had because of him.
âSee you Sunday, Gutiérrez says.
They tap each other on the arm and Escalante nods at Nula, a kind of economical greeting that is also a gesture of approval, as though, despite having exchanged only two or three conventional words with him, he were granting him something resembling a certificate of approval. Chacho comes around the bar, and his corpulence, while surprisingly greater than it seemed at first, contrasts with the energy and even agility with which he moves. Gutiérrez and Nula follow him, but Gutiérrez takes a couple of hesitant steps and then stops, turning back toward Escalante.
âIâll have you know, he says, that when a European pauses thoughtfully, pencil in hand, itâs because heâs doing a crossword puzzle.
âI imagined as much, Escalante says, without stopping, and practically without looking at him, as he turns back toward the table of card players, and Nula thinks, again, but with a shade of irony this time, What strange people .
They step out into the rainy night, and, under the entrance sign, Gutiérrez once again unfolds the multicolored umbrella, but Chacho is moving so quickly that he has to stop and wait, realizing that the others have been delayed by a couple of seconds. As soon as they leave the swath of light that projects over the sidewalk, Chacho turns on the flashlight and an intense white beam shines over the sandy ground, the uneven brick sidewalks, and thesaturated weeds that border the street. On the next corner, as they cross the illuminated intersection, Chacho turns off the flashlight, but after only a few meters he turns it on again. They pass the last of the street lights, and the tall silhouettes of darkened trees ahead appear to block their path, but it wouldnât make sense to say that the trees interrupt the road: just like when they came into town from the north, the
Escalanteâs preference immediately generates a certain regard in Chacho for the visitorsâsomewhat diminished by the scene heâs just witnessedâand a resigned smile decorates the ambivalent manner with which he gazes, through the doorway that leads to the sidewalk, at the slanting rainfall that crosses the light against the dark backdrop of the night.
âI have a couple of catfish, he says. Theyâre the first of the year.
âSo they donât leave empty-handed, Escalante says.
A childish, intensely joyful look appears on Gutiérrezâs face, which the barman notes with a spark of satisfaction and possibly even malice, and Nula, without hesitating, attributes the look to some idealized image of the local color that, during his years away, Gutiérrez had hoped to recover, and which, at this moment, by some unexpected and benevolent concession granted by the external world, is now really real. Chacho disappears into the back of the building, through a doorway next to the fridge.
âDonât walk past the dump this late, Escalante says. Youâll be slaughtered and eaten up.
âWhere oppression reigns, its victims are always suspect, Gutiérrez says.
âThey came forth for no good reason, and now they squirm around like a bunch of larvae, Escalante says, and, with a hoarse laugh, adds, Just like the rest of us.
âYet we claim to embody something more elevated, Gutiérrez says. Power, knowledge, wealth, tradition, and, worst of all, virtue.
âLarvae that pontificate, buy cars, and drink fine wine, Nula says, rubbing his hands together. My golden goose.
Chacho reappears in the opening that leads to the other room: heâs now wearing a burlap sack shaped into a sort of cloak over his shoulders; he carries an enormous flashlight in one hand and a knife in the other.
âDo you know where it is? Gutiérrez says.
âDoctor Russoâs place? Escalante says. I once brought charges on behalf of two or three poor bastards who lost everything they had because of him.
âSee you Sunday, Gutiérrez says.
They tap each other on the arm and Escalante nods at Nula, a kind of economical greeting that is also a gesture of approval, as though, despite having exchanged only two or three conventional words with him, he were granting him something resembling a certificate of approval. Chacho comes around the bar, and his corpulence, while surprisingly greater than it seemed at first, contrasts with the energy and even agility with which he moves. Gutiérrez and Nula follow him, but Gutiérrez takes a couple of hesitant steps and then stops, turning back toward Escalante.
âIâll have you know, he says, that when a European pauses thoughtfully, pencil in hand, itâs because heâs doing a crossword puzzle.
âI imagined as much, Escalante says, without stopping, and practically without looking at him, as he turns back toward the table of card players, and Nula thinks, again, but with a shade of irony this time, What strange people .
They step out into the rainy night, and, under the entrance sign, Gutiérrez once again unfolds the multicolored umbrella, but Chacho is moving so quickly that he has to stop and wait, realizing that the others have been delayed by a couple of seconds. As soon as they leave the swath of light that projects over the sidewalk, Chacho turns on the flashlight and an intense white beam shines over the sandy ground, the uneven brick sidewalks, and thesaturated weeds that border the street. On the next corner, as they cross the illuminated intersection, Chacho turns off the flashlight, but after only a few meters he turns it on again. They pass the last of the street lights, and the tall silhouettes of darkened trees ahead appear to block their path, but it wouldnât make sense to say that the trees interrupt the road: just like when they came into town from the north, the
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